EXETER — On Tuesday night, Rye Police Chief Kevin Walsh, who with his officers attended the wake of fallen Brentwood police officer Stephen Arkell who was killed in the line of duty last Monday, said he had no way of knowing how the turnout of support would affect those close to the murdered officer would have.

The following morning, on Wednesday, despite my best efforts regarding timing with road closures and the formal procession — but with the guidance from a couple of very nice Epping police officers — I found myself in the actual procession of police personnel making their way toward the memorial service of slain officer Arkell. Many were marching, some driving, some holding flags: all mourning and grieving the loss of their fellow officer.

I write this sidebar not to bring attention to myself. I felt completely out of place, though very grateful for the courtesy extended to me to get to the high school to cover the service, but also completely out of my element as I navigated, ever so slowly, Route 27 with flashing lights ahead of me in my windshield and a tramway of family and friends following behind me in my Honda Civic. (For which I still have no actual rearview mirror.)

Officers from near and far organized earlier than me, at Star Speedway on Epping Road, before beginning the procession at approximately 9:30 a.m. Wednesday.

However, the reason I felt compelled to write something is because of exactly the way the life and death of Officer Arkell has brought together a community.

In full force

As I nervously watched my gas level declining while also wanting to crank the AC because it got so ridiculously hot, it was impossible not to notice the outpouring of support from Arkell’s community.

“We’re so proud!”

Me too! I am!!.

Wait ... What..

“Do you need any water?”

“I’m not even sure where I’m supposed to be right now ... I’m just in line.”

Let me say this: Nine out of 10 times, I do not, as a reporter, really want to ask you anything.

I’d rather talk to my dog.

I do want to learn your story, though.

But I can already surmise how you all feel. So when I ask, I’m not really offended by your answer. Just dish it out.

“I don’t blame ya.”

“It’s nothing anyone can really explain.”

But I want to know if you can.

I know how you probably feel the day after someone you love has died.

I know you don’t actually want to muster the strength to answer my question.

It’s an all-but obvious answer.

But there is this quote:

“Only three types of people run toward a fire or tragedy, not away from it: police officers, firefighters, and reporters,” claims the national Newseum in Washington, D.C.

I haven’t run into a burning building. I have definitely not negotiated with a shooter. I’d never claim that my memories contain those that any first responders cannot erase.

But I am there. I’m wanting to tell your story. The parts of it I can’t begin to imagine.

That’s why I’m there.

And I do know there is no way to “un-see” something. There is no way to not hear certain statements. There is no way to erase anything.

As much as one can prepare to feel nothing — you, we, are still human,